Northwest Passages

by Barbara Roden

  Sylvia winked at him. “Ah, c’mon, could be fun.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Joe, who had been listening to the conversation, nodded his head thoughtfully. “Lots of people will come for Expo. Vancouver is a beautiful place. All my family back in Italy wants to come over in two years, to see this beautiful place I tell them about.”

  Sylvia still looked doubtful. “Yeah, Vancouver’s beautiful, in the right places. Not down here, though. There’s too much . . . ” She paused, looking for the right word.

  “Ugliness?” Mark supplied, remembering Jane’s words.

  “Yeah. There’s so much ugliness down here.”

  “Look.” Joe gestured towards the main doors, where a group of well-dressed people had just alighted from a taxi. Laughing and chatting, they clattered towards the elevators, their voices echoing around the empty lobby. Outside, the taxi pulled away, and they watched as the flags hanging above the door stirred in the wind. They looked soft and golden in the light from the lobby, and it was hard to remember that only steps away there was desolation and suffering and the darkness of people ground down by life.

  “You see?” said Joe. “Beautiful people in a beautiful city. In two years we will show the world what it is like here, and many more people will come after that.”

  The flags continued to flow gently in the night wind. Mark wondered what it was saying.

  III

  Mark stood on the sidewalk outside The King’s Arms, watching as the woman made her way down the street. A few scattered curses could still be heard, growing fainter as the figure moved away. A cold breeze brought more leaves off the trees, and they skittered along the road, making dry, rasping noises. He shivered and turned to Bob. “Think we’re okay now?”

  “Yeah.” The security guard nodded. “That should do it for the night. I’ll keep an eye open and make sure she doesn’t come back.” He shook his head. “The drunks I can handle; what gets to me are the women. Maybe it’s ’cause I have two daughters.”

  Mark watched as the retreating figure turned a corner and disappeared from sight. “I don’t know how they can live like that.”

  Bob shrugged. “No place else to go, most of ’em. At least it’s warmer here than in Toronto. That’s what brings ’em to Vancouver. It’s what brought me here when I retired.”

  “You were a cop, weren’t you? Toronto City?”

  “Yep. Thirty years. Saw some things, I can tell you. Still, it was a piece of cake in comparison, from what I can see. We had problems downtown, but nothing like you see here.” He shook his head again. “More drugs here; port city and all that. Stuff goes down here that you just don’t get in Toronto. The Sutton case—never had anything like that in Toronto.”

  “The Sutton case.” Mark nodded. “Yeah, I remember that. Seven women?”

  “Eight. Jeez, that was bad. Bring back the death penalty, I say. Fucker like that—excuse my French—doesn’t deserve to be alive, even if he is rotting in a jail cell in Kingston. Waste of taxpayers’ money. Never should have got to eight, either. Wouldn’t have, if it had been in North Van or Kerrisdale or anywhere except down here, Skid Row. One woman disappears from some middle-class neighbourhood, her body turns up in a dumpster a few miles away, people are going to be screaming for the police to do something about it, but women disappear from down here, and who cares? Who even notices? Didn’t look good for the Vancouver cops; black eye for the city. Especially when they found out they had the right guy after five murders, and let him go.”

  “Yeah, I’d forgotten that.” Mark frowned, recalling. “Something about some other person making crank calls to the police, led them in the wrong direction.”

  “That’s it. Police had Sutton in the frame, main suspect, and then they got calls from someone claiming to be the murderer, along with a letter from—where was it?—the interior somewhere, Kelowna or Vernon, same place as the calls, anyway. Seemed legit, police took it seriously, and since they knew Sutton hadn’t been there they let him go. He killed three more women before he got caught. Figured the calls and letter were from some wannabe copycat, or someone’s idea of a sick joke gone wrong.” Bob shook his head. “Some twisted, sad people out there. You’d’ve thought something like that would keep women off the streets down here, but they’re still around, worse than ever. Now the city’s talking about trying to do something about them and the drunks and the drug dealers, get ’em outta sight before Expo comes along; looks bad for the tourists, seeing junkies and prostitutes all over the place. They’ll just end up moving them along somewhere else, let someone else deal with them. Cosmetics, that’s all it is; like putting a bandaid on a broken leg. And nothing’s really changed since the Sutton case, that’s the really sad thing. Whole fucking mess could happen all over again any time, and get to more than eight, for all the notice anyone’d take. There’s a few people trying to help, but not many.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the lobby. “Raymond in there, for instance.”

  “Raymond?” Mark exclaimed. “What does he do?”

  “Helps out at a shelter on Cambie, near the cenotaph. Didn’t you know? Yeah, I’ve seen him there a couple of times. Asked him about it once, but he didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yeah, he’s not the talkative type, Raymond. Keeps to himself.”

  Bob laughed. “I noticed. Just goes to show, you never can tell about people.” He looked at his watch. “Gotta go check the parking lot and back entrance; found a couple of winos behind the dumpster there two nights ago, want to make sure they haven’t come back. It’s getting colder now, they’re looking for somewhere more sheltered. Page me if our friend comes back.”

  “Will do.”

  Mark watched the burly figure of the security guard walk away down the sidewalk and turn the corner towards the entrance to the hotel parking lot. He fumbled in his pocket and lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag. Further down the street a movement caught his eye, and he saw a figure stagger out of a doorway and turn away, weaving down the street. A car that was driving along Hastings slowed, then stopped as another figure moved out from the shadows close to the buildings and leaned in the open passenger window. Mark could see that it was a woman, dressed, despite the weather, in a short skirt and short-sleeved, clingy top. He wondered if it was the same woman Bob had seen off the premises a few minutes earlier. It could have been; it was hard to tell at that distance. The thought flitted through Mark’s head that all the women down here looked the same anyway, and he shook himself angrily. Wasn’t that part of the problem that Bob had been talking about?

  He heard the sound of a door slamming, and realised that the woman had disappeared into the car which had stopped for her. It pulled away and drove off down Hastings. They don’t call it the world’s oldest profession for nothing, Mark thought. Nothing’ll ever change.

  There was a flare of light behind him, and he turned to see that someone had entered The King’s Arms. Mark moved closer to one of the windows, peered through the glass, and saw that it was Raymond, obviously going to clear the cash register where the bartender and servers rang up the orders. He watched as the tall man disappeared behind the bar and walked to the machine at the far end. It was darker down there, and Mark wondered how he could see what he was doing. Five years he’s been doing it, he thought. He could probably manage it blindfolded.

  He watched as Raymond set the machine clearing, and then was surprised to see the auditor turn away from the register and look into the corner of the bar furthest from where Mark stood. He had his back to Mark, but it looked as if he was speaking with, or to, someone: his head bobbed up and down, and his hands moved in a gesture which made it look as if he were trying to explain something. Mark squinted through the glass, trying to see who he was talking to, but it was dark in the corner, and all he could make out were shadows. If there was someone else there, the person was keeping well out of view.

  Mark was even more surprised when, a moment later, Raymond reac
hed up and turned on the television set which was mounted in the corner over the bar. The glow from the screen illuminated that section of the room, but only faintly. The shadows were still thick, but . . . yes! There was someone there, he thought. There, in the corner, a figure, surely. . . .

  He leaned closer to the window, and inadvertently struck it with his forehead. He pulled back in surprise, but not before he saw the auditor turn with a visible start. Mark thought that Raymond said something, but he could not hear it through the glass. He saw the man reach up and turn off the television set, and the corner retreated into shadows.

  A moment later Mark was back inside the hotel, and had pulled open the doors leading into the bar. He reached to his right and flicked on the bank of switches there, and immediately the room was flooded with light. Raymond was behind the bar, his attention focused on the cash register as if his life depended on it. Mark scanned the room, but there was no sign of anyone else, and no way that anyone could have left without being seen. Unless that person was behind the bar with Raymond . . . but that was ridiculous. Mark cleared his throat.

  “Uh, Raymond . . . sorry if I startled you. I was just . . . I thought that . . . hey, if you want the TV on when you’re in here that’s fine, not a problem . . . ” He trailed off, aware that he was babbling and obscurely angry about the fact. He took a breath. “If there’s something you want to talk about . . . ” Why had he said that? “Okay. I’ll just leave you to it.” He turned and left the bar before Raymond could say anything.

  IV

  For the rest of the night Mark found himself thinking, at odd moments, about what he had seen in the bar. On the surface, there seemed little that was troubling. What had actually happened? Raymond had been talking to himself; well, that wasn’t exactly uncommon. He had turned on the television in the bar; not a hanging offence. He had seemed startled when Mark banged the window; who wouldn’t be, well after midnight, in a dark bar, alone?

  But had he been alone? Mark realised that was the aspect of the whole business that was niggling at him. He could have sworn there had been someone else present, in the shadows in the corner. Thinking about it, he saw that the presence of another person made the whole scenario perfectly simple. Raymond had been talking to someone, had turned on the TV for that person, and had been startled when he had been spotted.

  Only there hadn’t been anyone else there. Raymond had come out almost immediately after Mark, and had locked the doors behind him. Later, feeling slightly embarrassed, Mark took advantage of the auditor’s absence behind the desk to go and check the bar. Both sets of doors—the one into the lobby and the one that opened onto Hastings—were firmly locked, and there was no one in the room. Mark stood by the doorway for a few moments, shaking his head. With the lights on the room looked commonplace, resolutely ordinary, stools lined in orderly fashion against the bar, chairs and tables empty, waiting for the next day’s custom. The brass footrail against the bar gleamed softly; glasses sparkled; bottles of liquor glowed dully, amber and red and gold, full of promise. Yet in spite of this, Mark shivered. The King’s Arms was not, he thought, somewhere he would care to drink, or spend any more time in than he had to. If Raymond wanted to sneak in and put the television on to pass some time, he was welcome to the place.

  Mark snapped the lights off and took one more almost involuntary glance backward. The movement in the shadowy corner furthest from him he put down to the reflections from the street light outside. He pulled the doors to, made sure they were securely locked, and headed into the brightly lit lobby.

  Behind the desk Raymond had his head down, and seemed to be studiously avoiding catching Mark’s eye. Sylvia was busy posting bar charges to guest accounts, and Mark didn’t want to say anything in front of her. Besides, what was there to say? The graveyard shift was a funny place; the normal rules didn’t apply. Everyone knew that. Probably Raymond had been caught doing the same thing by another Duty Manager, and been hauled over the coals for it, and now feared a repetition. Mark decided that the best thing to do was forget about it.

  Later that night he was in the kitchen, rustling up a sandwich. Sylvia was already at one of the tables in the empty restaurant, eating a piece of pie and reading a thick paperback. Mark took his sandwich and a glass of milk over to the table and slid onto the bench opposite. He glanced at the title of the book.

  “Tales of Mystery and Imagination, huh? What’re you trying to do, impress someone?”

  Sylvia grinned. “I like to surprise people. My mom actually got me onto Poe; read me ‘A Cask of Amontillado’ when I was about eight. Scared the crap out of me; I had nightmares about being bricked up alive for days afterward. I loved it, though. It’s brilliant stuff. Listen to this.” She opened the book and began to read aloud, rather self-consciously:

  “During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.”

  She looked up. “Great stuff, isn’t it? Here’s another favourite.” She flipped forward a few pages, cleared her throat, and read:

  “And travellers now within that valley,

  Through the red-litten windows, see

  Vast forms that move fantastically

  To a discordant melody;

  While, like a ghastly rapid river,

  Through the pale door

  A hideous throng rush out forever

  And laugh—but smile no more.”

  “That explains why you watch stuff about ghosts on TV.”

  Sylvia slid a bookmark between the pages and laid the book down on the table. “I guess. I’ve just always liked things like that: Bigfoot, Loch Ness Monster, Ogopogo. Bring it on, I say.”

  “I’m surprised you can work graveyard shift. Doesn’t it spook you?”

  Sylvia took a bite of pie and considered the question for a moment. “Nah, not really.” She met Mark’s gaze and added, “Well, sometimes.” There was a pause. “Front desk isn’t so bad. Night audit’s kind of creepy sometimes, wandering around the hotel when it’s dark, clearing the machines. Glad I only do it two nights a week. Don’t know how Raymond stands it the rest of the time.”

  “Funny how he never joins us for some food. Doesn’t the guy get hungry?”

  Sylvia swallowed another mouthful of pie. “Yeah, ’course he does. He’s not that weird.”

  Mark remembered Joe’s words of a few weeks ago. “You think Raymond’s weird, then?”

  “Kind of. Not that there’s anything wrong with him; I’ve worked with worse, believe me. It’s just that . . . ” She paused. “I guess I’m just not used to working with people I don’t know much about. I mean, you work with someone, especially on graveyard shift, you talk, right? Like we do. Just stupid stuff, everyday stuff, not trying to solve all the problems in the world, just shooting the breeze. But Raymond—he never talks about himself. I asked him once where he was from, and he just said he was from the Interior, and I said “Gee, must be kind of different, living here in Vancouver, then”, thinking maybe he’d open up a bit, but he just said yes, it was, and that was it. Every time I try to talk with him it’s like that; not unfriendly, just . . . It’s like trying to play tennis with someone who never hits the ball back to you, so I’ve pretty much given it up. Some people just don’t like talking about themselves.”

  “He ever mention a family, anything like that?”

  “Nope. I asked Kathie on the morning shift about him once—she’s been here forever, knows everything about everyone—and she said he’s never mentioned anyone else. Came here five years ago from another hotel in the chain—Victoria, I think—and been here ever since. They tried to get him to go up to the accounting department a couple of years back, she said—figured he’d had enough of the graveyard shift, and he’s not the greatest person in the world with customers
anyway—but he said no, he was fine where he was.” Sylvia took another bite of pie. “Oh yeah, another thing she said was that there was some fuss a couple of years ago—kind of thing you wouldn’t remember about anyone else, but Raymond’s so . . . what’s the word . . . ”

  “Weird?”

  “Yeah, weird about sums it up. Anyway, Kathie said that they found out he hadn’t taken any vacation in the three years he’d been here. I dunno how they missed it, but he just kept coming in to work, week in and week out, and no one noticed he hadn’t taken any holidays. I guess it’s easy in a hotel, everyone working shifts, not like in an office nine to five. There was a fuss about it, I guess, and they tried to make him take a big whack of holidays all at once, but he just said no way.” Sylvia shook her head. “Crazy, huh? It’s not like he would have lost pay or anything, but he just refused, said he didn’t need a holiday, didn’t want to go anywhere, he didn’t care if he lost the time or the pay or anything.”

  “So what happened?”

  Sylvia shrugged. “Kathie says they came to some kind of arrangement; he got back pay for the time he’d accrued, but he was told he had to take his holidays in future, it was in the contract and there’d be hell with the union otherwise. Apparently Raymond wasn’t very happy. Guy never gets sick, either; Kathie figures he must have weeks of sick time stored up.”

  Mark thought this over. “Do you think . . . do you think he’s got a problem of some kind?”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I don’t know.” Mark paused, thinking of the scene in the bar earlier. “Could he . . . could he have a drink problem, maybe?”

  “Drink problem? Raymond?” To Mark’s surprise she looked thoughtful, almost concerned. “What makes you think that?”

  Mark sighed. It all seemed so stupid, really, and yet he found he wanted to talk about it. So he told Sylvia about the scene in the bar earlier, expecting that she’d laugh and tell him he needed to get moved off the graveyard shift before he started seeing pink elephants in the elevator, but instead she just looked at him silently for a few moments and then said slowly, “That’s weird.”